


On The Edge

by Socratesandstartrek



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Blood, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Romance, Short, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 20:11:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/891370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Socratesandstartrek/pseuds/Socratesandstartrek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“John Hamish Watson” Sherlock whispered, hot tears lining the bottoms of his eyes. <em>This is a mistake.</em> An unfamiliar feeling tugged at his insides. “I could call an ambulance, they could fix this. We could run. We’ll run… we’ll…” <em>They’d find us,</em> he knew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Edge

“It had to be me, John.” Sherlock’s voice was weak. He lowered John down, knelt, and held the doctor close. Blood was seeping rapidly out of the knife wound in John’s stomach. “They told me, they decided that you’re,” saying it plainly was difficult, “holding me back. Either they would, or I had to, and I remember you said once to do it... I couldn’t bear to see you go down slowly, painfully at their hands.” His breathing hitched. “John, John I-”

“Sherlock.” John was calm. His face was cool, sweaty and drained of colour, his breathing tense and shallow. “There’s not time for me to be angry. I cannot believe that you didn’t try to explain, to tell me the bloody situation. It's just my _life_ after all but hell, I trust you. I’ll be damned, but I trust you.” 

“John Hamish Watson” Sherlock whispered, hot tears lining the bottoms of his eyes. _This is a mistake._ An unfamiliar feeling tugged at his insides. “I could call an ambulance, they could fix this. We could run. We’ll run… we’ll…” _They’d find us,_ he knew. “I’ll clean you up." his hands were slick and red. "What is this?” He couldn’t remember what’d happened, and felt sick. He glanced away from John’s face to find his hands and sleeves damp with blood. John’s blood. _John’s blood? Why is this happening? Who did this?_ Sherlock felt broken and weak.

“Shh, hush love.” The dying doctor was strong, strong enough for both of them. He had experience feigning strength when wounded. John was using every drop of energy he had left to stay conscious, and focused, as focused as he could manage, on Sherlock. He lifted his right hand slowly, shaking, unsteady; left hand keeping pressure on to somewhat slow the blood flow. Sherlock saw what John was trying to do, guided the doctor’s hand to his face, and leaned in.

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes” John said in-between shallow breaths. The pain seemed to lessen, as if finally saying it somehow helped physically. Then, as if remembering that Sherlock had just stabbed him with murderous intent: “I dunno why...you unimaginable idiot” he finished. His eyes smiled, but the words were spiteful, and his jaw was clenched tightly.

The grin quickly drained, hot liquid streamed down Sherlock’s face. “Oh no, don’t you bloody dare say that. No, no, no” he whispered, shaking his head with eyes closed. He tilted his head back to look at the ceiling and inhaled sharply through his teeth. Sherlock was genuinely surprised, confused, and searching for signs, tells that he’d overlooked. “I didn’t think you’d say that. And now look what I’ve done, and you said it, you said _that_. You can’t very well die now!” He laughed genuinely in disbelief, leaned in close to John again “You love me and _I’ve killed you._ Tell me how to fix this, John. I can fix it. Can I fix it? Tell me what I should do, John.”

His heart was racing, and he was unsure if it was John who was trembling, or him. Sherlock wanted to pick John up and carry him to the hospital, but he was frozen and surprised. He could only stare into John’s unfocused eyes and burn with regret. Shame fixed him to the spot. He’d never felt regret, not like this. _I made a mistake, I did this. **I did this.** What the hell have I done? John’s dead, and I did it. What have I done?_ The words were burning in his head. The warm seconds were years as he waited for direction.

* * *

 

It was almost worth the pain, dying in Sherlock’s embrace. Something was clearly off about Sherlock. In two ways John had never seen Sherlock like this. He was so close, all his features highlighted impossibly by John’s fading vision and fading mind or the evening light from the window. But his eyes were frantic; he was crying and babbling on in broken sentences childishly, and worst of all, he didn’t seem to have thought this plan out at all. That was typical Sherlock, not planning but never when it invloved a person's life.  _Especially mine._ John felt he'd been stabbed in more way than one.  _Here he is, murdering me, what, on a fucking whim?_

John was indeed bleeding out on the floor, shaking, sweating, dizzy, unable to move, yet his eminent death and Sherlock’s seemingly absent motive weren’t at the top of his mind. Foggy though it was, his mind was stuck on Sherlock’s volatile reaction to what could likely be his last words. John opened his mouth to speak again, but Sherlock wasn’t listening, and no sound came out. _I love you._ “I get a wish, right? A dying wish?” he managed, not knowing if he’d said it aloud or just in thought.

Sherlock had calmed, was aware of what he’d done, but not why, and what was now happening. He was absent-mindedly tracing John's face, jaw, and weakly grabbing and straightening out his hair. Touching John and feeling him close was calming. He perked up slightly at John’s voice and nodded.

“Could you…”

“Yes, anything.” Sherlock was searching John's face, his featues, savouring these moments, knowing there wouldn't be many more.

John rolled his eyes. “Could you say it back, idiot.”

They both managed to laugh, Sherlock grinning widely and John smiling with his eyes. “Of course. You know that I, John, you know. You’re stupid, but you’re not _that_ stupid, surely you’ve realized the way I…” He’d put on his “these are the obvious facts” voice. John squinted in disbelief; his glare very clearly said _are you fucking kidding me._ Sherlock’s cheeks flushed. _I suppose I owe it to him to actually say it._ He cleared his throat, slowly leaned to John’s ear and whispered “Doctor Watson, you know very well that I _love you_.” He kissed John’s cheek, moved below John's jawline and softly kissed his neck. He stayed there, eyes closed, breathing in. 

“Hospital, Sherlock. Now. If you’ve changed your mind. I haven’t got much long--”

“Shh.” He lightly kissed John’s lips to quiet him. John inhaled sharply, in pain? More likely something else, something they hadn't time for.They both knew there wasn’t any time to be deliberating. _Or kissing._  Sherlock was still conflicted and rigid with shame, but he was so comfortable and calm now, holding John. John was unconscious now, Sherlock noted after feeling for his faint pulse. _As to be expected._ Sherlock realized. He sat up and saw that his entire torso was darkened with blood; he didn’t dare lift the shaking hand that was keeping pressure on John’s messy wound to check it. A sense of urgency kicked him at last.

 _John Watson loves me._ He mused. _He loves me and I’m sitting in a pool of his blood from a knife wound I inflicted._ “I killed you. You love me and I killed you.” Sherlock kissed his lips gently, the tears starting again. John was, in fact, not dead. Yet.


End file.
